AN: I'm sorry for not posting a chapter for so long! I kept trying to continue writing, and then life happened. I kept postponing uploading this chapter—probably because I wanted to make it longer, but I found it a bit difficult to continue. However, there will be longer chapters again.

I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer, so today, I'm sharing a shorter chapter.

"I hope your rather animated telephone conversation is not a sign of bad news, Mr Barrow," Carson remarked over dinner.

"My father is ill, Mr Carson," Thomas replied.

"Oh, I am very sorry to hear that," the butler murmured before asking, "Would you like to take some time off?"

"I'd like to leave first thing in the morning."

"Really?"

"If you want me to see him alive", Thomas said.

"Heavens above. Of course, I do. You must go at once," Carson insisted.

"I'm so sorry to hear that. I remember your father well," Baxter whispered. Emma, seated between them, caught every word.

"There's no need to feign sympathy now."

"I have known your family for a long time," Baxter admitted. "I don't wish to be your spy, but that doesn't change the facts."

"Well, if you say so," Thomas replied indifferently.

"Your father was always kind to me."

"Oh really?" Thomas scoffed. "Because he was never particularly kind to me."

Emma listened intently, feeling the tension between her father and Mrs Baxter grow heavier. Her eyes flickered to Thomas, whose expression was carved from stone. He sounded cold and… disappointed.

Still, it didn't stop her from asking, "Can I come with you?"

Thomas blinked and slowly turned his head towards her. "What?"

"I want to come with you," Emma repeated.

Thomas rubbed a weary hand over his face. "No, Emma."

"But he's my grandfather," she argued, trying to find a reason that might change his mind.

"No." His voice was calm but final. "You have school. And this is not a trip for you."

"But—"

"No buts," Thomas said, irritation creeping into his tone. Why couldn't the child accept a simple no? Why did she always have to push with more 'buts'?

Emma bit her lip, feeling a lump rise in her throat. She had only met her grandfather once. She longed to visit the place where her dad and mum had grown up. But she said nothing more.

Why wasn't she allowed to go? Why should she sit in school while he went on a journey?

She glanced at him from the side. His face was tense, his gaze fixed on his plate.

The days after Thomas' departure dragged on longer than usual for Emma. Her father was away, and though she refused to admit it, she missed him more than she had expected. But she barely had time to dwell on it—she had to study for her upcoming history exam.

She sighed to herself as she read the same dates over and over, only to forget them a blink later.

"Mr Molesley," Mr Carson cleared his throat.

At once, the footman lifted his head, looking at the butler questioningly. After all, he had been enjoying his afternoon tea during a brief break.

"Yes, Mr Carson?"

"Would you be so kind as to assist Emma Grace?" Carson requested.

"I— but…" Molesley barely had time to form a protest before Carson continued, "I know that tutoring is not among the duties of a first footman, but I believe I can overlook it just this once."

"Of course, Mr Carson," Molesley nodded, then turned to the girl. "How can I help you? What's the topic?"

"Royal history," Emma sighed, handing him her history book.

"Splendid! We shall start with the Tudors. Do you recall when Henry VIII became king?" he asked enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

Emma frowned. Dates were not exactly her strength. "Uhm… sometime in the 17th century?"

Molesley pulled an exaggerated grimace as if she had uttered a grave insult. "1509! And if you remember that, the rest will come more easily."

He took a large sheet of paper and began drawing a timeline. "Here, look. 1509—Henry VIII. Then 1558—Elizabeth I. And, of course, 1603—the end of the Tudors with her death."

Emma let her gaze wander over the numbers. "They're just numbers. I can never remember things like this."

Molesley considered for a moment. "Then you need a little trick! Now, picture this: Henry VIII became king in 1509. Imagine he weighs exactly 150.9 kilos."

Emma giggled. "Was he really that fat?"

"He was probably even heavier," Molesley admitted. "Now, Elizabeth I ascended the throne in 1558. Picture her owning 15 dogs and 58 pairs of shoes."

Emma snorted with laughter. "That's ridiculous."

"But you'll remember it!" Molesley replied triumphantly.

And, indeed—the more little stories he invented, the easier it became for Emma to memorise the dates. They spent the afternoon completing the timeline. History had never felt so alive to her before.

As she finally packed up her book and notebook, she looked at Molesley. "Mr Molesley, why didn't you become a teacher?"

He blinked in surprise. "I… well…" He awkwardly ran a hand over his hair. "I had considered it once. But life led me elsewhere. And I do enjoy being a servant."

Emma smiled. "I think you'd make a wonderful teacher."

Molesley regarded her for a moment, then smiled back—and in his eyes, there was a spark, as though she had rekindled a long-forgotten idea.

Anna sat with her head bowed on the plain sofa in Mrs Hughes' sitting room. Her hands were clenched together, fingers twisting nervously. The words came haltingly over her lips, as if she were afraid to speak them aloud.

"They'll find out," she said in a hoarse voice, despair laced into every syllable. "About Mr Green..." She lifted her gaze to Mrs Hughes, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "They'll find out what he did."

Mrs Hughes, who sat opposite her with a deeply concerned expression, slowly folded her hands together. "How?" she asked gently but firmly. "No one in this house knows about it except you, me, and Lady Mary. And she would never breathe a word."

Anna shook her head. "No, I don't believe she would either." She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for what she was about to say next. "But… Emma knows as well."

Mrs Hughes frowned. "Emma? What does she have to do with any of this?"

Anna nodded slowly. "She saw something. She was there, Mrs Hughes," she admitted for the first time. "I don't know exactly how much she understood, but she knows that something terrible happened to me. And… I'm not sure how much I can trust her to keep quiet."

Mrs Hughes let out a slow sigh, leaning back in her chair. Her hands rested on the armrests, but her fingers gripped the fabric tighter than usual. "If Emma had intended to tell Mr Barrow, she would have done so already," she pointed out. "So you needn't worry." At least, Thomas didn't seem to know much about what had happened during Mr Green's time at Downton Abbey—otherwise, he wouldn't be snooping around with such curiosity.

Anna pressed her lips together, rubbing her hands anxiously. "But what if she does tell someone? What if she says something by accident? Or if someone asks her questions?"

"Emma is a clever girl," Mrs Hughes replied. "And she has more loyalty than you might give her credit for."

But Anna remained tense, her thoughts circling endlessly around the same fear. "Somehow, they'll find out," she whispered again. Her voice was barely more than a breath, but the fear in it rang loud and clear.

Mrs Hughes leaned forward, her tone firmer now, more resolute. "Anna, listen to me. You have done nothing to be ashamed of. And if the truth ever does come out, we will stand by you. I will stand by you."

Anna looked at her, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though she could hold on to those words.